‘Just this moment, sir. I have been working on it assiduously.’
‘Then, for heaven’s sake, let’s go!’
‘But I understood that you were to address the young ladies, sir.’
‘Oh, I’ve done that!’ responded Mr Wooster, blinking twice with extraordinary rapidity. ‘Yes, I’ve done that.’
‘It was a success, I hope, sir?’
‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Most extraordinarily successful. Went like a breeze. But – er – I think I may as well be going. No use outstaying one’s welcome, what?’
‘Assuredly not, sir.’
I had climbed into my seat and was about to start the engine, when voices made themselves heard; and at the first sound of them Mr Wooster sprang with almost incredible nimbleness into the tonneau, and when I glanced round he was on the floor covering himself with a rug. The last I saw of him was a pleading eye.
‘Have you seen Mr Wooster, my man?’
Miss Tomlinson had entered the stable-yard, accompanied by a lady of, I should say, judging from her accent, French origin.
‘No, madam.’
The French lady uttered some exclamation in her native tongue.
‘Is anything wrong, madam?’ I inquired.
Miss Tomlinson in normal mood was, I should be disposed to imagine, a lady who would not readily confide her troubles to the ear of a gentleman’s gentleman, however sympathetic his aspect. That she did so now was sufficient indication of the depth to which she was stirred.
‘Yes, there is! Mademoiselle has just found several of the girls smoking cigarettes in the shrubbery. When questioned, they stated that Mr Wooster had given them the horrid things.’ She turned. ‘He must be in the garden somewhere, or in the house. I think the man is out of his senses. Come, mademoiselle!’
It must have been about a minute later that Mr Wooster poked his head out of the rug like a tortoise.
‘Jeeves!’
‘Sir?’
‘Get a move on! Start her up! Get going and keep going!’
I applied my foot to the self-starter.
‘It would perhaps be safest to drive carefully until we are out of the school grounds, sir,’ I said. ‘I might run over one of the young ladies, sir.’
‘Well, what’s the objection to that?’ demanded Mr Wooster with extraordinary bitterness.
‘Or even Miss Tomlinson, sir.’
‘Don’t!’ said Mr Wooster wistfully ‘You make my mouth water!’
‘Jeeves,’ said Mr Wooster, when I brought him his whisky and siphon one night about a week later, ‘this is dashed jolly.’
‘Sir?’
‘Jolly. Cosy and pleasant, you know. I mean, looking at the clock and wondering if you’re going to be late with the good old drinks, and then you coming in with the tray always exactly on time, never a minute late, and shoving it down on the table and biffing off, and the next night coming in and shoving it down and biffing off, and the next night – I mean, gives you a sort of safe, restful feeling. Soothing! That’s the word. Soothing!’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, sir—’
‘Well?’
‘Have you succeeded in finding a suitable house yet, sir?’
‘House? What do you mean, house?’
‘I understood, sir, that it was your intention to give up the flat and take a house of sufficient size to enable you to have your sister, Mrs Scholfield, and her three young ladies to live with you.’
Mr Wooster shuddered strongly.
‘That’s off, Jeeves,’ he said.
‘Very good, sir,’ I replied.
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ISBN 9780099513698
P. G. Wodehouse, Carry On, Jeeves!
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